


Important Information

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Crime, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mob-AU: </p>
<p>Mycroft Holmes runs one of the most grounded, extensive crime networks in the UK. That doesn’t mean that he can keep his easily bored little brother from befriending a Detective Inspector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Important Information

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a bit now, and it's mostly fleshed out. 
> 
> Feel free to check out my [Tumblr](http://aithilin.tumblr.com) for updates and various other things.

It had started out as an act of charity. They would meet once a week, and he would buy the young man a coffee and lunch, or make sure he got home safe. Getting information about the local petty criminals, burglaries, and drug dealers who would have otherwise slipped through the cracks to keep up their ‘business’ was just something of a bonus. But Lestrade hadn’t started keeping an eye on Sherlock because he wanted an informant. 

He just liked the guy. 

Lestrade thought that the brilliant young madman needed someone o his side. Help him get clean, find something he could set that overactive mind on, and make sure he landed back on his feet. It just happened that crime was Sherlock’s preferred puzzle, and Lestrade could carefully feed him information to get a fresh take on the latest string of muggings and assaults. The meetings became so frequent that Lestrade started finding ways to smuggle out scraps of cold cases and copied reports to Sherlock just to see him put the pieces together. 

He never expected to be in this position: flanked by hired guns and brought to a block of derelict apartments that were (probably) scheduled for demolition in a month or two. This was the sort of thing that happened in bad movies and even worse crime novels. It was the sort of situation that popped up in urban legends, but it wasn’t supposed to _actually_ happen. Real detectives didn’t just get stopped and manhandled into nondescript cars, or brought to empty buildings (though he had to admit that it was a good spot for a murder— if the building came down, a corpse would be far too mangled by the procedure to easily identify, and the murderers could easily be well away by then), or roughly patted down before being shoved forward by a beast of a man who seemed to communicate in single-syllable words.  
If this _was_ one of those terrible crime dramas, there would be long staircases leading to a basement level. He would be able to outsmart his captors and escape through a brightly lit and too-obvious doorway, or grab an alarm that could summon help from an ever-ready SWAT team that just happens to be standing by eight minutes away. 

Or he was going to be brutally murdered so a younger, more attractive detective could take the case and swear justice.

He hadn’t expected the elevator. 

It had been recently renovated— the sawdust and bits of extra scrap still shoved into the corner. The lights flickered once, twice before it shuddered to a proper start and headed upwards. The thug on his left patted his shoulder. 

“What do you think?”

“Sorry? Think?”

The hulking man, still towering over Lestrade by a good six inches and several stone, nodded and indicated the still-shining woodwork around the electrical panel. 

“Did it all myself. Do you like it?”

“It’s, uh… very nice.” Christ, these were _literal_ contractors taking him to his brutal murder. Lestrade wracked his brain for any cases where he might have accidentally destroyed a union scheme or got on the wrong side of the many construction teams around the city. He almost missed the look of unabashed pride that his comment sparked. 

To his right, the second man crossed his arms. “Don’t get him started. He’ll be on about the bloody wood panels all night. I did up the wiring for the whole building, and he’s just proud that he got to put up some bits of wood in a lift.”

“Your wiring set us back near three weeks, Jeff. An’ you let Mike take off on holiday instead of getting him proper on these lifts.” The man nudged Lestrade as they shuddered to a stop. “Even flooded the whole first basement in the first three days of plumbing work. Useless lot, this team.”

“Is this our floor?” 

The men nodded together and gave Lestrade a little push towards the door. It was certainly not a simple concrete box set up like some madman’s lair. There was still a bit of dust and wires kicked off to the side along the corridor— an outlet in need of a cover (Jeff muttered about the mess as they led him along), and rolls of carpet stood against the wall every few feet. The door they took him to was not at the end of the hall, nor was it imposing, but it opened to a well-lit little office all the same. 

The kind of office a rental agent or office manager might have— tidy but unfinished. Carpet was laid and the beginnings of bland décor had been gathered (and piled into a corner while selves were still sorted out), but none of that snapped Lestrade out of his surreal daze until he saw Sherlock. 

The young man was in a sulk. He had seen that petulant look before, knees drawn up like a child in the large chair he was sat in. There were no visible signs of distress or injury that Lestrade could see as he was muscled into the chair opposite. Sherlock was just in a sulk. 

John Watson, the blond stocky man Lestrade had met only once or twice when dropping Sherlock off, stood by the chair, a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Lestrade had always just assumed that John was Sherlock’s friend (once the awkward conversation of ‘partners’ had been cleared up), but now, with a gun in his left hand, and his right resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, Lestrade thought that he looked more like a minder than a companion. Just a few days ago, he and John had discussed the finer details and strategies of their respective sports— Lestrade had admired the man for his straightforward sense of humour and ability to handle a bored Sherlock. He didn’t know what to make of the image of this man presented to him now, so he fell back on the assumption that John was still a good man. 

“You two okay?”

“Fine.” John’s tone was clipped, businesslike, and _military_. He knew that John was ex-army, but he had never actually seen this kind of tone and stance roving it. 

“No. This is ridiculous.” Sherlock swatted at John’s hand. “For god’s sake, John, It’s just Lestrade.”

“That is precisely why you’re both here, and I’ve taken these precautions, brother mine.” The contractors hurried out with this new arrival, both offering a quick nod in greeting before tearing off to where ever it was that they should have been. Lestrade knew the man from most important functions— ones that requested official security that worked with privately hired firms, and from the sort of society rumours that came with quietly threatening chats if you wandered past at the wrong moment. The man smiled— an insincere gesture of greeting. “It’s unfortunate that we are meeting like this, Detective Inspector.”

Before Lestrade could respond (not that he knew how he would), the man continued. “I am Mycroft Holmes. I’m told that you’re already very,” there was a pause as he seemed to search for a particular word or phrase, as he glanced over both Sherlock and Lestrade; “ _familiar_ with my little brother.”

“What’s this about?” Lestrade didn’t miss the small quirk of Sherlock’s lips as he tried to speed things along. He suspected that it was less and less likely that he was going to be murdered now. 

“This is about, Mr. Lestrade,” theatrics ruined, Mycroft perched at the edge of the desk across from the chairs, giving him an effective view of both ‘guests’; “your conversations with Sherlock. You are a reasonably intelligent man, I’m sure you can infer exactly what sort of connections we hold, and who we might actually be.”

There was a set of stories that went around the office every time a crime that was just a little _too_ perfect or _too_ complex happened: there was an organization behind it. There was never any real connection between the crimes, and nothing to tie them to any sort of gang or theoretical mafia, but they were just a bit too well planned to be the work of the usual petty criminals or clever gangs. And those who were caught and brought in always seemed to be omitting one crucial piece of information. Lestrade had toyed with the ideas of an organization before, skirted the edges of some cases in particular. 

Mycroft spoke again, aware of the connections Lestrade had drawn. “It is in your best interest, Detective Inspector, to tell me exactly what Sherlock has told you. So that we might assess the level of threat—“

“He’s not a threat, and I’m not an informant. You are wasting your time, and I have better things to do than deal with your meddling.” 

Mycroft took a deep breath, a clear attempt to steady himself against his brother’s impatience. Rather than respond, he turned the not-inconsiderably weight of his attention to Lestrade. 

“I’m sure we can have this cleared up easily enough. Detective Inspector, what _exactly_ has Sherlock been telling you?”


End file.
